


5 a.m.

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this inception_kink prompt, "What's that smell?" "5 a.m."</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 a.m.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Yo, pisan! Not mine!  
> Notes: Set post-Inception.

Ariadne wakes up out of a sound sleep—the first she’s gotten in what feels like months—for no apparent reason, and sighs.

Dead silence, pitch darkness. Neither too cold, nor too hot. Nothing burning—but there  _is_  a strange scent, both herbal and floral.

“What’s that smell?” she wonders aloud, running a hand through what’s probably horrendous bed-head.

“Five a.m.,” A voice answers dryly, and she squeaks, more startled than frightened. A moment later, the lamp on her nighttable comes on, and she’s got her M&P special pointed in the direction of the voice.

(Had she been as trigger-happy as Arthur could be, it would’ve been a clean shot through the heart. Trigger-happy he may be, but Arthur’s trained her well.)

“ _Eames_?” she demands disbelievingly, as he holds up his hands in mock surrender, sitting comfortably in the rocking chair her mother had given her. He’s an eye-watering vision in plaid and paisley.

“None other than, darling,” he confirms, smiling a little, though his eyes are grey and grave. “Do you always wake up at this ungodly hour?”

Still not lowering her pistol, Ariadne kicks the comforter off her legs and swings them over the edge of the bed. “Only when there’s an intruder in my bedroom—Eames, what’re you  _doing_ here?”

That grave smile doesn’t falter. “I should think that’d be obvious, my sweet,” he murmurs, inclining his head a little toward the crib in the opposite corner of the room. Its occupant is still, miraculously, sleeping.

“I’m here to see our son.”

 

 

 

Ariadne freezes, every muscle in her body contracting—so much so, she almost pulls the trigger. But Eames is there, taking the gun from suddenly nerveless fingers. He places it on the nighttable and sits on the bed, chafing Ariadne’s clammy fingers. He’s no longer smiling, searching her eyes in that piercing, intent way he has.

“Breathe, petal,” he says softly, and Ariadne does, realizing that she’d been holding her breath. As air whooshes in and out of her briefly starved lungs, Eames watches her unreadably, that grave smile making a slight come back. “Did you really think you could keep me in the dark forever?”

Ariadne looks away—focuses only on the crib across the room. “I wasn’t trying to keep you in the dark, Daniel.”

“Then what would  _you_  call not telling a man you’re carrying his child?” Hints of anger in that smooth voice, and Ariadne flushes, more than a little angry, herself.

“Considering that said man ended our no-strings-attached non-relationship when I admitted I had feelings for him, I call that discretion.” Ariadne pulls her hands out of Eames’s and stands up, walking over to the crib. In it, laying on his stomach, David slumbers on, his fingers curled into loose little fists.

Ariadne runs a gentle hand down in his back and he stirs a little. When she takes her hand away, he stills.

“He’s . . . beautiful, Ari,” Eames says quietly, from right beside her. When Ariadne glances at him, he’s staring down at David like he’s never seen a baby before. His hand hovers over the crib as if stopped by an invisible forcefield.

For a moment, Ariadne is nearly swept away by fierce possessiveness—by the urge to step between Eames and  _her_  son. The urge to take David and get as far away from Eames as possible, so he can never, ever hurt her again. . . .

Sighing, Ariadne shakes her head. “You can touch him, Daniel, but don’t wake him up. It takes forever to get him back to sleep.”

 

 

 

Eames looks at her, clearly surprised. His hand still hovers for a few seconds then lowers slowly to his side. He shrugs uncertainly.

“I just spent the last ten minutes breaking into your flat . . . I feel as if I should wash them, first,” he says, still looking almost yearningly at David. Ariadne sighs again, leaning on the crib.

“Go ahead, then. I’m certain you remember where the bathroom is.”

“I do.” Eames actually  _blushes_ , and Ariadne is helpless to remember all the times they screwed in the shower, or on the way to the shower, Eames carrying her as if she weighed nothing at all. Though he’d seemed to like pinning her against the wall, pushing into her hard and fast as they both panted and strained against each other. . . .

Ariadne clears her throat and runs a hand through her hair, cursing her fair complexion. “You should go wash your hands,” she says lamely. Eames nods and is gone before either of them can say anything else.

She lets her breath out in one long gust.

“Shit, shit,  _fuck_ ,” she swears, a little louder than she means to, and David starts to stir again.

By the time Eames gets back, Ariadne’s pacing back and forth, David in her arms, whimpering and waving his arms.

“Did I do that?” he asks, clearly alarmed, and dripping water on her floor. Ariadne snorts.

“Of course you didn’t. And you’re not holding him with wet hands, either.”

“Oh.” Eames holds his hands out in front of him as if they’re covered in toxic waste. Then he hastily wipes them on his button-down, sky-blue shirt, leaving wet spots all over it. Fighting a smile, Ariadne rolls her eyes as Eames looks to her for permission once more.

Ignoring another wave of possessiveness, she paces toward him, bouncing David in her arms as a few of the whimpers become wails. He’s starting to settle down some, but he’s hungry, and because of that cranky as well.

“Hold your arms out like I’m holding mine,” she orders, and Eames immediately does so, copying her arms and stance to perfection. Which is annoying, seeing as it took weeks for Ariadne to figure out how to hold David  _just so_. “Okay, good.”

Eames smiles at the grudging praise, his eyes lighting up. They haven’t left David once, wondering and bright and still oh, so yearning.

(It still hurts, somewhere deep below the surface, that he’d never once looked at her like that. At least not when they weren’t screwing.)

This close to him, that herbal/floral scent intensifies, and she wonders absently if it’ll bother David.

_Well, there’s only one way to find out_ , she thinks, holding her— _their_  fussing son out and placing him carefully in Eames’s arms.

 

 

 

“Oh, bloody hell.” Eames laughs as Ariadne settles David in his arms, watching as they tighten to just the right degree, protective and possessive. It makes her want to kiss Eames as much as she wants to retrieve the M&P and get him out of her place and away from  _her_ — _their_  son.

“I’ll have to feed him soon,” she warns, watching her baby wriggle and fuss some more in his father’s arms. Even though at seven weeks old, he’s still far too young to look like much of anything, he nonetheless looks remarkably like Eames, seeing them together. His fine, tufty hair is brown, instead of blond, and his eyes are a darkish hazel instead of grey. But the shape of them—of his face in general—is all Eames.

“Bloody hell,” Eames says again, still laughing. He brushes one of David’s tiny fists with his index finger, and David grabs it and wails. Eames bounces and rocks. “He looks like my mum. Bloody well screams like her, too.”

Ariadne barks out an unwilling laugh, and David looks startled . . . then he starts crying in earnest and Ariadne starts leaking.

“Okay, it’s time for his breakfast,” Ariadne starts unsnapping the upper buttons of her nightshirt and Eames looks at her as if she’s gone mad. “Oh, don’t act as if you haven’t seen my breasts before. Give him to me.”

Averting his eyes, Eames hands David back to her, just as carefully as he’d been given. Ariadne arranges the wailing, flailing baby at her breast, breathing a sigh of relief when he immediately begins to suckle noisily.

Rocking David gently, Ariadne makes her way to the rocking chair and sits with a soft groan. Eames takes a seat across from her, on the bed. He’s trying not to stare and failing.

“Does that . . .  _hurt_?” he asks hesitantly. Ariadne rolls her eyes again.

“Of course it doesn’t. It’s . . . I can’t really describe it,” she admits. Then smiles. “Peaceful. Good. Right. Take your pick.”

“You look like a Madonna,” Eames says almost reverently.

“I hadn’t figured you for a religious type.” In fact, she knows Eames to be an avowed atheist.

“Even I have my spiritual moments, my dove.” Eames leans forward, hands braced on the bed. His eyes are glued to David once more. “Why didn’t you tell me about my baby, Ari? Why did I find out he was mine by finessing my way into the City Health Office to see his birth certificate?”

 

 

 

Ariadne runs her fingers gently through David’s sparse, fine hair. “Honestly? I didn’t think you’d be happy that I was pregnant. Didn’t think you’d want a child—least of all with a woman you’d dumped.” She shrugs, and David opens his eyes briefly. They’re as grave and solemn as Eames’s had been. “You seemed to want nothing more to do with me. I was respecting what I thought were your wishes.”

Eames sighs. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want anything to do with you—“

“Oh, really?” Ariadne looks up and catches Eames’s eyes on  _her_ , more worried than angry, now.

“I . . . was concerned about you, and thought I’d check in. See how you were doing. When I saw you pushing a stroller a few days ago . . . I knew. Had to make certain, of course, but I knew.” Eames shakes his head, smiling ruefully, self-deprecatingly. “I was gobsmacked, Ari. And unhappy.  _At first_ —and I honestly can’t blame you for predicting the way I’d have reacted—but then the next time I saw you with him, holding him . . . I don’t know. Something had changed. I was and am . . .  _glad_  he’s here. He’s something I needed, but didn’t know I wanted until I saw him in your arms.”

Ariadne shifts David to her other breast and wipes her eyes. “So, what, now? You want to be a part of his life?”

“Of both your lives, yes, if you’ll let me.” Eames swallows hard, his gaze dropping to David again. “I know I don’t have much of a right to ask, but . . . ask, I must. And I can’t help but think if you were totally opposed to the idea, you wouldn’t have put my name on his birth certificate.”

Ariadne looks down at David for a few minutes. Till he’s almost done nursing, his suckling slowing down and growing sporadic. “If I say no?”

“Then I’ll stay away,” Eames says simply, and his smile turns wry. “I also managed to dig up that you named Arthur as his godfather. And his guardian, should anything happen to you . . . I shudder to think what would happen to  _me_ , were I to force my way where I’m not welcome.”

Nodding, and thinking fondly of Arthur she wonders why—not for the first time—she and Arthur had never tried to make a go of it, despite the obvious chemistry between them. Why, of all the old gang, she’d fallen for Daniel Eames.

“Please say yes, Ariadne,” Eames says earnestly, snapping her out of her reverie and back to the matter at hand. “He deserves a father—perhaps a better one than I could ever be, but . . . I’d like to try. If you’ll let me.”

David makes his peremptory  _I’m quite done, mother! Now burp me!_  noise, and Ariadne wipes his mouth with the flap of her nightshirt and shifts him again in her arms, patting his back gently. Eames watches all this with rapt fascination, as if seeing a particularly gripping magic trick.

Outside the window, first light is touching the sky, turning black to charcoal grey. The scent of herbs and flowers has now filled the room.

“C’mere, Daniel.” Eames immediately does, kneeling at her side, gone grave and attentive, once more. Ariadne blushes, and hands their son to him. Eames takes him, clearly surprised.

“You’ll wanna hold him against your left side, so he can hear your heartbeat. Good,” she says, when Eames follows her instructions. “Now pat his back very gently . . . good. Do that until you hear a—“

David burps—and farts—quite audibly, before Eames has patted him half a dozen times. Eames looks stunned, as if David has sprouted wings and flown around the room.

“Bloody hell,” he says, yet again, still patting until David makes an annoyed sound that means _enough, already!_  “Is he, er, done?”

“He should be.” Ariadne stands up, and Eames stands with her. Once again, he’s only got eyes for David, only this time, it makes Ariadne smile—until Eames’s face goes slightly green.

“Dear God, what on  _Earth_  is that  _smell_?” He frowns, craning his neck downward to look at David, who’s looking back up at him curiously. Ariadne’s smile turns into a grin, and she takes Eames’s elbow, leading him to the high table next to the crib.

“That would be  _6 a.m.,_  which means it’s time for lesson the second, Daniel: How to clean and change your newborn.”

 


End file.
